With or Without You

by Alison Tyler

  ‘I don’t know what I want,’ I lied.

  ‘I’d better make you an appointment,’ Nora said, deciding for me.

  Chapter Nine

  Nora’s words set my fantasies in motion. Not that I needed much assistance at this point. I wondered what it would be like to fuck Anthony. For some reason, I kept using that word when I thought about the action. Fuck. Hearing the word in my head turned me on. Maybe this was because to me Anthony didn’t look the type to make love. He had a powerful presence about him, as if he might back a girl up against a wall, hold her wrists over her head, slam his body against hers.

  Or was that simply what I wanted him to do?

  I could see every single frame, the way his eyes would stay open, holding me in place with his expression alone. I envisioned him moving slowly, undressing me piece by piece. For once, the fact that I wore layers was a good thing. He would have to take off my sweater, my blouse, my bra, my shiny black loafers, my slim-fitting slacks, my panties – so many items before I would be naked. There would be a puddle of black clothing on the floor when he was finished, and I would stand in the centre of it, nude, one hand covering my pussy, the other across my breasts. With my hair down, and my body so revealed, I’d resemble the goddess in that famous Boticelli painting The Birth of Venus – but I’d be standing in a pool of black clothing rather than in an open shell.

  Anthony would still be dressed, and this worked to arouse me even more. For once, I wouldn’t be hiding myself, wouldn’t be avoiding notice. I would be like a work of art, for Anthony to admire. But I would be living art, something for Anthony to rotate, to manoeuvre, to use however he desired.

  I fantasised about him fucking me right here, in my office. In all the years that Byron and I were together, we never had sex at either of our places of work. Why was that? Wouldn’t you have thought that at least once, during some extra-long lunch break, or after one of our work events, we would have thought to try it on a desk?

  I suppose he had tried it on his desk with Gwen, and I did everything I could to replace that image with one of me and Anthony. I wasn’t only fantasising about Anthony as a way to get over Byron, though, was I?

  No, because in the few years that I’d known Anthony, he had definitely featured in my sexual daydreams. I wondered what he would do right now if he knew I was daydreaming about him, about him stripping me. Would he come to my office if I called? Would he make each one of my fantasies come true?

  Nora had said to surprise him. To wear my hair differently. To dress up or dress down. In my flirtatious fantasies, I put her words into action. I suddenly saw myself not naked, but wearing an outfit much more appropriate to Nora’s world than to mine. Something sexy and skin-tight. Something you might see on a starlet strolling down the red carpet. But that wasn’t me. Not for real.

  If I could recreate myself, how would I do so? I wouldn’t be punk – never punk. I couldn’t imagine myself with spiky hair like Nora’s, or a rainbow of hues to match my moods. But I could see myself in a more rock ’n’ roll creation. Slim-fitting black leather pants. A lipstick-red T-shirt that featured an image of one of Nora’s favourite girl singers, Joan Jett, with the message below it: WWJJD – What Would Joan Jett Do?

  My hair is generally off my face in a no-nonsense ponytail. I don’t put any effort into styling and, unfortunately, it shows. When I’m bent over a book reading, a ponytail is the easiest way to keep my hair out of my eyes. In my daydream, I wore my hair down and flat-ironed, glossy in the light. Anthony gripped onto it as he pulled me in for a kiss, working me much more roughly than I’ve ever been taken in the past. Telling me without words that I was his. That’s what I was so sure of. I don’t know why. But I knew, just knew, that fucking Anthony would be a powerful ride.

  Should I sneak out of the office and redress myself? The thought didn’t seem as crazy as it had when Nora first suggested it. I could claim that I went home at lunchtime to do an errand, that I decided to put on something different for our night out. But put on what? I didn’t have anything different. A mental inventory of my suitcase came up with nothing but black.

  Should I call Nora up again and ask her to meet me at some sexy store? She would definitely know the places to take me, and I was certain she’d be up for helping me to transform. I could just hear her, ‘Let’s go. Let’s get you new clothes. Let’s turn you into a sexy beast.’

  No. I couldn’t change my whole world in a day. Last night was enlightening enough – exciting enough for a year’s worth of fantasies. Or more. I knew that Nora would be disappointed if she could follow my train of thoughts, but I tried not to be too hard on myself. Even more than engaging in an unexpected threesome, breaking up with Byron was enough of a shake-up for one week, wasn’t it? I didn’t have to respond by trying to recreate my entire demeanour, did I?

  I gazed around my office. There was no clutter here, yet the shelves were filled with books. The walls were decorated with posters of shows I’ve worked on, the ones I’ve been most proud of. I have never considered myself even remotely artistic. I am a researcher, a chronicler of events. Now, I had a sudden urge to knock everything off the shelves. To create chaos from the order. Had Byron broken up with me because I was too old-fashioned? Too much like a school marm?

  Why hadn’t I seen the end coming?

  I settled down lower in my chair, my eyes falling on a picture of Anthony in the recent in-house newsletter. He’d been given an award, and the photo showed him looking sheepish as some ancient patron of the arts handed over the statuette. Looking at him made me think once again of the kiss we’d shared at Christmas. It wasn’t by accident that the newsletter was opened to this page. I’d read the article several times, on the pretence of learning more about my co-workers, but really because I wanted to keep gazing at his photo.

  His kiss had been delicious. His lips on mine had made me feel guilty for weeks afterwards – guilty in both a good and a bad way. I’d been left wanting more, wanting him to fulfil every dirty fantasy I’d ever had – and each time Byron and I had gotten together, I’d imagined Anthony in our bed instead of my beau.

  Was I a hypocrite for being so incensed at Bryon? No. Because I’d squashed my fantasies. And, besides, I’d never called out the name of my dream lover, whereas Byron hadn’t only said the name of his crush. He was actually doing her.

  Like I might be doing Anthony.

  The very thought made my nerve endings jangle with electricity. I looked at the photo again. Now, I had the chance to find out what he’d really be like. And the thoughts consumed me. I actually shut the door to my office and, for the first time in my life, truly gave into my fantasies at work. I envisioned Anthony coming to find me, having some question about the manuscript that he wanted to discuss in person. I saw him barging in, finding me with my legs up on my desk, my hand in my slacks, my body arched.

  I had a damn good feeling that finding me in such a compromising position wouldn’t shock him at all. In fact, I thought he might simply lock the door behind him and come towards me, ready for action. Would he take me against my desk or take my seat for himself and fuck me on the wheeled contraption?

  My face felt so hot. I rubbed one hand over my cheeks, then down my body, caressing my breasts through the fabric of my plain black shirt. Nora might be able to slide into that not-so-private room of her club and make her fantasies come to life. But this sort of thing was much more unusual for me. Was it because I was so focused on my job? And was it because my job was so focused on objects that were hundreds of years old? I had always wanted to be doing what I do now. But I had never wanted to become an actual relic myself. A dinosaur.

  I thought about Byron once more, and for the first time I understood him. He’d gone after adventure. Yes, he’d done it in an abhorrent way, but he’d gone, nonetheless. I’d never given much thought to our relationship, assuming that boring was what happened after years together. Assuming that if you wanted danger, you got Nora. If you wanted safety, you got Byron. An
d then he got Gwen. And I got …

  What did I get?

  Did I get Anthony?

  Would I be that lucky?

  I pictured Anthony and me in Nora’s club, heading down to the Cinéma Vérité room. I visualised the two of us totally disregarding the camera, but knowing that the watching electronic eye was there the whole time, recording our every move. In my mind, Anthony stripped my dress off me, and I had on a pair of Valentine-red lace knickers and matching bra beneath. Like a dream, I stripped off Anthony’s shirt, revealing his muscular chest. I mentally placed him behind me, flipping me so that my hands were flat on one of the mirrored walls. I had him slip my panties aside, rather than take them all the way off me, and then I felt him slam inside of me.

  His hands held onto my waist, and he moved me to the most perfect rhythm. We could hear the music playing from the dance floor – music actually playing from the iTunes on my computer – and Anthony fucked me to that rhythm. INXS, ‘Devil Inside’.

  In real time, I slid one hand under the waistband of my slacks, touching myself as I continued to fantasise. How amazing it felt to be alone with Anthony, while knowing the whole time that we were on display, the same way that sexy trio had been on display the other night.

  Did I need to bring another member into our party?

  Should I mentally invite Nora to join?

  Oh, no. Not for this. I could never compete if Nora were in the room. Even in my mind. Being with her and Dean the night before had taught me that. Not that we were competing for his affections, but when Nora’s involved, she tends to take over. The way she had in the Cinéma Vérité room. This fantasy need only be about me and Anthony – about the way he would take me, pressed up against the mirror, about the thought that others were watching. Everyone was watching. What would the DJ play next? Not a song by Peaches. That was so much more Nora than me. Something sexy, though. Something seductive.

  I wracked my mental iTunes library, searching for the right single to play in my head. Ah, Massive Attack. ‘Karmacoma’.

  This was Nora working on me. I wasn’t imagining fucking to Sting or Dire Straits, but to the unbelievably seductive rhythm of Massive Attack. That was all Nora. She should be proud. In fact, I’m sure she would have been if I’d had any plans to confess this scenario to her – which I didn’t.

  I opened my eyes and called up this particular sexy song on the computer, purchasing the tune with a click. Then I leaned back again and continued to touch myself while I thought of Anthony. I had a feeling that he would have no fear, that if I were to walk down the hall right now and confess to my desires, he would fulfil each one. What was stopping me? Social propriety. That’s what. It’s what I would have said to Nora, and she would have rolled her great green eyes and given me an unhappy little frown. Nora doesn’t care what other people think of her. Why should I?

  Because I do. Can’t help it. I reserve judgment to any art that comes my way, yet I cannot help but judge my own actions on a daily basis. Even in my own fantasies.

  With a sigh, I closed my eyes again and dived further into my daydream.

  We were there, in the room, naked together. Anthony’s hands were on my wrists, holding them over my head. He spoke softly to me, whispering so low that I couldn’t hear him right away, but when I did make out the words, I realised he was speaking Italian. A language of love. I could make out the phrases because Nora had taught them to me during our trip. ‘I want to sleep with you.’ ‘Do you want to sleep with me?’ ‘I want to tie you up.’

  She’d had so much fun teaching these risqué statements to me, because she’d known the whole time that I would never need them.

  Now, I did. In this fantasy world, I needed to know every single word Anthony said.

  ‘Please,’ I told him, and in a heartbeat he had a pair of my nylons in one hand, and was binding my wrists with them. I could feel the silky stockings on my skin, knew somehow what it would be like to be tied up, even though I’d never played that way before. Anthony tied my wrists behind my back, and then pushed me forwards, sliding inside of me from behind.

  I was so wet, crazy wet, so ready for him. He slid inside me, his voice low but his mouth pressed to my ear so I could hear him. ‘I’ve wanted you for years,’ he whispered, now speaking English. ‘You knew it, too. You made me wait.’

  This was why he taking me like this, with my body forced up against the cold chill of the mirror. He was punishing me for delaying this inevitable encounter, and I loved every second of it. My eyes focused on the camera, knowing that there were people dancing in the other room, dancing while they watched us fuck.

  The phone rang as I came. I had to shake out of the last whispers of my fantasy, try to find reality somewhere in the electric beeping of the black telephone.

  ‘Bad girl,’ Anthony whispered when I picked up the line.

  Oh, Christ. Did he know? Could he guess how bad? I felt as if he could see through the phone line and into my office, see through my body and into my mind. My voice didn’t work at all.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you not to be late?’

  No, he didn’t know, he was just playing. I mumbled a quick apology, making up some nonsense excuse about working so hard on the angel show that I’d totally lost track of the time. As I spoke, I was not sure what I was saying or what I should be saying. My hand was still trapped inside my damp panties. I felt dizzy, not like myself at all.

  He laughed. ‘I’ll let you slide this time, Eleanor, because I’m in a good mood. A really good mood. You’re going to be, too, when you see what I have for you. You’re not going to fucking believe it.’

  My mind continued to play its naughty tricks on me.

  What did he have for me? A hungry mouth, a dominant attitude, a steel-like rod waiting to be discovered under his neatly pressed khaki pants? A knowledge of what I wanted and needed, desired, deserved?

  ‘I’ve got five pages done,’ Anthony said. ‘Meet you downstairs.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘You like the Stones?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Old Stones or new Stones?’

  ‘Any Stones,’ I told him, honestly. This is the one true rock band that I’ve always liked, and I am a die-hard fan. I remember when ‘Start Me Up’ came out. My mom was horrified when the song played on the radio. ‘Are they still around?’ she demanded, aghast. ‘I listened to them back when I was in college!’ As if nobody her age should still be allowed to play. But I’m fairly sure that from the way they’re still going – playing Super Bowl half-time shows – my own future kids will be fans, as well.

  Anthony chose ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ from his NanoPod, and I instantly thought of how pleased Nora would be. The man might drive an antique car, a 1964 candy-apple-red Galaxie convertible, and he might listen to antique music – the song was released more than thirty years ago – but at least he was modern in his technology.

  As downtown LA disappeared in a blur of concrete overpasses and sunset sky, I wondered where we were heading. It didn’t actually matter to me. I knew that later in the evening, I’d have to hook up with Nora. She was beyond excited about the prospect of her new reality show. But I didn’t have to think about Nora’s show at the moment. Now, I could focus all of my attention – and all of my nervousness – on Anthony.

  As we drove, I wondered if he could smell the scent of my arousal. I had rushed to the ladies’ room after his phone call and washed my hands in the pink liquid soap before hurrying to meet him downstairs. My panties were still sopping wet, and it seemed obvious, at least to me, that my perfume was more of the deeply personal variety than the kind that normally comes in a pretty glass bottle.

  If Anthony knew, if he could tell, he didn’t let on. He simply pulled up in front of Osborne’s Plastic World, parked the convertible Galaxie between two identical silver BMWs, and ushered me inside. I liked the way his car looked there, book-ended between those two boring status symbols. The blandness of the Beamers made his Galaxie stand out that muc
h more. For a brief moment, I thought of Byron and his desire to own whatever model car every other lawyer in his firm owned, and that thought made me even more happy to be here with Anthony.

  As soon as we walked down the few steps and into the bar, I sensed a difference come over him. The museum fell away and he was at ease, in his element. Not that he isn’t relaxed at work. But in the museum, he’s always so focused. The hostess, a sultry brunette with eyes so violet they had to be fake, gave him a warm smile, and I watched the interaction between the two of them. My own eyes narrowed, and I felt myself growing suspicious. What was this? Jealousy already? I forced myself to look away, taking in the rest of the environment.

  Osborne’s is a long cavernous restaurant off Vine that seems even longer due to a well-placed wall of mirrors. I’d been inside once before, for a poetry reading, and had marvelled at the multitude of mobiles hanging from the ceiling, odd plasticine creations that shine even in the dimmest of light. These are what make Osborne’s a ‘Plastic World’. The mobiles move and flutter above the heads of the diners, rustling gently, creating their own music by softly brushing against each other. I appreciated the creativity that went into the installation and wondered whether the owner, Jack Osborne, had ever been displayed at any other location. The mobiles, reminiscent of Alexander Calder – a visionary who felt that art need not be static – were delicate, ethereal creations. Just watching them calmed my mood. Isn’t that what art is for?

  Once our mink-haired hostess had us comfortably seated in a corner booth and we had ordered our drinks, Anthony handed me a slim Manila folder. He seemed prepared for my reaction. As soon as the folder touched my hand, a strange feeling came over me. I was desperate to read what he had translated. In fact, I was filled with the same urgency, the same yearning I’d had when I first saw the manuscript in the rubble of the pottery. Thoughts of how I’d spent the afternoon disappeared from my head. The guilt left me. Longing made me ache.